A Favor for a Friend
by magdalena maria
Summary: Just a minor, insignificant incident in a very long life...because I like to think that not every immortal female that crossed Methos' path wanted to take his head :


_Standard Disclaimer-Nothing you recognize belongs to me, I make no profit from this work of fiction._

"Housesit?" Methos favored Duncan with an amused look over the mouth of his beer bottle. "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not joking." Duncan set the suitcase by the front door and turned to frown at the man sprawled indolently on his couch. "A friend of mine had a family emergency and I've been feeding her pets while she's out of town." The frown slid briefly into a scowl as he added, "You don't seem to have anything better to do."

"Pets." Methos repeated the word as if he'd never heard it before and had little interest in the definition.

"A dog and two cats." Duncan clarified.

Methos chuckled. "I might-with the right incentive, be persuaded to cat-sit," He held up a finger. "But dogs_..." _He waved a hand, indicating the rain splattered window and the gray, February afternoon beyond. "I don't think so."

Duncan expelled an audible, annoyed breath through his nose. "I'll take care your tab at Joe's."

The beer bottle paused halfway to Methos' mouth as shrewd, hazel eyes fastened on Duncan. "This sudden trip wouldn't, by chance, have anything to do with that phone call this morning?"

Duncan's eyes skittered briefly towards the ceiling and swiftly settled on the wall somewhere behind Methos' left shoulder. Methos settled himself more comfortably, his mouth quirking in a not-quite smirk. "Persuade me."

The frown lines between Duncan's eyebrows etched themselves deeper. "I said that I'd cover your tab at Joe's."

Methos lifted his beer and took a long swallow, his eyes closing briefly in satisfaction. Duncan shoved his hands into his pants pockets, scowled at the man that he usually called friend and occasionally, in the privacy of his thoughts, other less flattering adjectives.

"Yes, it was Amanda and yes, she has a small problem." His scowl deepened into a glare. "You were right." He bit the words off, as if they left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Don't say it." He warned, as Methos stood and stretched his arms towards the ceiling. "I wouldn't dream of saying I told you so, MacLeod." He said kindly, radiating innocence from every pore. "Let me just get my coat."

"Who taught her to write?" Methos queried snidely as he squinted at the closely written page of instructions, struggling to decipher the spiky handwriting. "I haven't seen penmanship this bad since the fifteenth century.

"Nuns, probably." Duncan said absently, intent on maneuvering through the heavy, late afternoon traffic. "She grew up in a Spanish convent..." his voice trailed off and the hair on the back of Methos' neck prickled with a sudden suspicion.

"When?"

"Does it matter?" Duncan parried.

"Yes, it matters, MacLeod!" The silence that followed confirmed his suspicions. "No. Absolutely not." He reached over the seat, groping for the straps of his bulging pack. "You can let me out right here-"

"Will you relax?" Duncan narrowly avoided the bumper of a massive truck that took advantage of his momentary inattention to cut in front of him. "I've known Isabel for a long time, she's not interested in the Game and she's not interested in your head!"

He threw a quick glance over his shoulder and swerved into the right lane as Methos shot him an incredulous look. "The answer is still no. The last immortal female you convinced me to do a favor for tried to take my head; I'm not taking a chance like that again." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it bristling like an agitated hedgehog.

"That was different." Duncan braked, made a sharp right turn. "Gina thought you were after Robert's head."

The silence stretched out, taut and unyielding as Duncan made several more turns through the quiet, tree-lined streets, finally coming to a stop in the driveway of an older, split-level home. "I talked to her this morning and she'll be home Sunday afternoon. Just walk the dog in the morning and leave the key in the flowerpot on the back deck; you don't have to talk to her, you don't have to meet her."

The glance he sent towards his passenger was not without a certain degree of calculation. "You'd be doing Amanda a favor."

Methos leaned his head back for a moment and then, with an exasperated sigh, reached for the door handle. "Both of you owe me for this, MacLeod."

Methos set his pack on the floor, pushing the door shut behind him and shot the deadbolt with a decisive click. To his left was apparently a den, he automatically noted the location of the room's windows and marked with pleasure the long, comfortable couch and the overflowing bookshelves that lined the walls. After a momentary hesitation, he left his coat on one of the brass hooks on the wall next to the door and out of long habit, set out to familiarize himself with the house.

The upper level proved to be three bedrooms, only one furnished; after locating windows and making certain they were each locked, he shut the last door and turned back towards the stairs, only to stop short as a small, orange, black and white blur levitated over the last stair and streaked across the intervening space to latch on to his ankle, chewing ferociously.

"You're a motley little thing, aren't you? You must be CiCi." He chuckled, reaching down to detach the kitten, which promptly balled itself around his hand to gnaw on his thumb. "Ow! How sharper than a serpent's tooth…" He deposited it on the floor where it immediately re-attached itself to his ankle, orange and black striped back legs pistoning with enthusiastic ferocity.

He watched in amusement for a moment and again detached the tiny creature from his pants leg. "Not up to a dismemberment today, sorry." He spatted it gently and it flew down the stairs, leaving him to follow in its wake to the kitchen.

Walls the pale gold of summer sunlight softened the glare of electric lighting as Methos leaned his elbows on the counter and perused the instructions Duncan had given him. Casting a disgusted glance out the rain streaked sliding-glass door, he decided that the dog would have to be satisfied with a run in the backyard until morning and after rummaging through pantry and drawers; he dispensed the proper foods into the proper bowls, refilled water dishes and opened the door to the garage.

A brown and white tornado exploded through it and bounced off of his legs, he grabbed for the back of a falling chair as the dog slammed noisily into the cabinets and ricocheted down the short hall, leaving the echoes of ecstatic, staccato barks and white hair floating in the air behind it; before he could regain his balance, it returned as a quivering, excited spaniel, dancing eagerly on back legs and _grinning _at him, sharp teeth gleaming.

"No-er-sit down, Duchess-" that was her name, Duchess! "Down, girl!"

Duchess obediently sat, tongue lolling from a still grinning mouth, her tail sweeping the floor in animated half circles. The kitten abandoned its food, pouncing on the swishing tail; with a strangled gasp, Methos made a grab for it and Duchess was on him with a happy yelp, forelegs draped over his shoulders, washing his face vigorously. Spluttering and gasping, he managed to detach himself and after fumbling franticly with the lock, threw the door open.

"Out!"

Duchess leapt over the long-haired black and white cat that shot through the open door, bounding joyfully and noisily into the night and Methos slammed the door behind her.

"Stonewall Jackson, I presume?" He inquired sarcastically, dividing a hostile glare between the cat and the muddy footprints it had left on the gleaming, hardwood floor; with a look of intense disdain, Jackson turned his back and arrogantly hoisted a white, feathery plume of a tail, sauntered over to one of the food dishes and began to eat.

An eon later, Methos sat back in one of the dining room chairs and surveyed the kitchen and dining room in exasperation. He had cleaned the floor twice and he was fairly sure he had gotten the mud splatters off the walls after Duchess had exuberantly shaken herself dry, but his favorite sweater would never be the same. He brushed ineffectively at the mud spots, snags and assorted animal hair adorning his chest, dourly deciding that MacLeod owed him considerably more than his bar tab. The thought cheered him immensely and with a light step he went to inspect the contents of the refrigerator.

"Ah." He exclaimed softly, surveying the assortment of bottles on the bottom shelf. He mulled over the choices carefully before making a selection, twisting the cap off as he shut the door and closing his eyes, took a long, pleasurable swallow.

He lowered the bottle with a contented sigh and opened his eyes to meet the malevolent green gaze of a monstrously overgrown gray and black brindled cat ensconced on top of the refrigerator, half hidden in the shadows of the overhead cabinet. Methos took an involuntary step backwards, muttering a propitiation in ancient Egyptian that he'd forgotten he knew.

"Who the hell are you?"

He shot a startled look towards the furry, black and white mass draped over the back of the couch and then back to the top of the refrigerator. The massive, brindled feline made no answer, but continued to regard him with a malicious, unblinking stare.

"The better part of valor is discretion, I think." He muttered, taking his beer and himself quickly to the den. He dismissed the extra cat as he scanned the bookshelves, like most immortals, his hostess had eclectic tastes and the shelves spanned not only continents but centuries. He hesitated between a leather bound volume of Renaissance poetry that he hadn't read in decades and Neil Gaiman's latest; the paperback won out and he retreated to the long overdue comfort of the couch.

_Saturday evening_

Methos settled back into the couch with a small sigh of relief. The past few days had not been without aggravation, but on the whole, he mused as his fingers stroked the sleeping kitten that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his chest, the novelty of the experience had been rather enjoyable. Not that he planned on mentioning that to MacLeod, of course.

He had barely drifted into sleep when the presence of another immortal set the base of his skull thrumming; the snick of a key turning in the front door brought him instantly to his feet. CiCi yowled in protest as she tumbled from his chest; he grabbed his jeans and pulled them up over his hips as Duchess, barking excitedly, threw herself on the woman that entered. The woman shut the door with a backwards kick, dropping the suitcase she carried and flung her arms around the dog, crooning nonsensically.

"Oh, I missed you, yes I did." She looked over at Methos and her eyes widened. "You are Duncan's friend, yes?"

Methos barely glanced at her as he buttoned his shirt. "Yes, I'll just be going now."

"Must you?"

Her voice bubbled with laughter, his fingers on the shirt buttons stilled and his head came up as recognition flooded over him.

"You have been so kind- please, stay for the evening meal. I have plenty of beans and tortillas, even a jug of good wine on the shelf. You must let me thank you somehow." Her voice had shifted from the warm cadences of Spain to the fiery summer heat of Mexico as she repeated the words she had once said to him a century before and Methos stared at her in surprise.

"Elena?"

"_Buenos noches, Senor_ Adams." Her black eyes were bright with mischief and she laughed, the soft, sultry laugh that had kept him in her sun-blasted border town far longer than he had meant to stay. "You remember me?" She moved towards him with the swaying grace of the dancer she had been.

"Oh, yes." He smiled, reaching for her."I remember you."

Rain was pattering softly against the window as dawn sent prying fingers through the curtains and over the intricately carved headboard of the four poster bed, Methos closed his eyes against the intrusion, one hand on the kitten sleeping on his chest.

"Elena?"

"Mmm?"

"How many cats do you have?"

"Just two." Her hand slid up his chest to the purring kitten, "and Jackson sleeps on top of the refrigerator."

She lifted her head to smile sleepily at him, her black hair spilling like warm daylight across his shoulder. "Why are you thinking of cats?"

He chuckled low in his throat and removed the kitten to a safe distance. "No reason."


End file.
